


A Little Piece

by RoAnshi



Category: Dragon Quest VIII
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-29
Updated: 2012-09-29
Packaged: 2017-11-15 07:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/524530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoAnshi/pseuds/RoAnshi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In returning to the Tower of Alexandra, Jessica finds something she's been looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Little Piece

“No. This one…” And Jessica peremptorily snatches the Echo Flute from Eight’s fingers, cradling it in her cupped hands. “I’ll find this one.” She swallows. “I know—I think I know—where it will be.”

They are on the outskirts of Alexandria, where on the wings of the Godbird’s soulstone they have flown, just the four of them. The King they serve—no, they serve more than Trode now; they serve the broken world—and his daughter wait anxiously back on Empycchu, unable to help in the search for the souls of the seven sages that have returned to help the World of Light in its time of need. Trode and Medea, she knows, would only slow them down, and wasting time is a luxury they no longer have.

That is her excuse, at least, as she bypasses the windmill gates to the village and instead moves at a brisk trot toward the road to the Tower. She knows she should enter the gates, climb the hill to the Albert mansion, visit her mother for perhaps the last time. But she dreads the possibility of harsh words and hell-to-pay, and now when the world is falling apart is not the time to provoke any more enmity between them. Plus she’s already paid enough into Hell, thank you very much.

The other three guard her as they move; Eight with his liberal applications of holy water, Angelo with his low-voiced protective spells, even Yangus with his sheer physical bulk, all of them keeping her safe. She supposes she should be paying better attention to the exacerbated dangers of the road, but since the others seem to have acknowledged by their actions that they know her mind is elsewhere right now, she lets them defend her.

She exhales in harsh little wheezes, and that angers her; she should be in better shape than this by now, after months on foot on the road. But inside she knows that it’s not exertion that’s quickening her breath. And now at the end of the road, the building looms over them, a dark shape against the sky that blots out the light in much the same way as the rising form of the Black Citadel eclipsed Neos as it tore free of the shrieking ground. She’s never seen the Tower of Alexandria as ominous before, but now, but now…

She unlatches the gate to the Tower’s courtyard, the secret manipulation that only Alexandrians should know; and she is almost resentful that the three who accompany her are privy to this birth-knowledge. Yet she can no longer see them as outsiders; not when without them Alexandria, along with the rest of the world, will fall under the thrall of the Lord of Darkness if they fail. 

There is not one misstep, nor one false turn, as she moves through the Tower, quick-quick-quick; up these stairs, climb that ladder, cross this walkway and don’t get too close to the edge or you’ll _fall_ ; stand before the eerie gleaming eyes of a gargoyle and trigger the revolving door into the next passageway. The others do nothing but follow in her agitated wake, although she can feel their restiveness with her behavior. 

Beware a force of nature, Angelo would probably remark in his irritatingly calm voice, with one eyebrow quirked in the way guaranteed to annoy with what he has deliberately left unsaid. Yangus, under his breath, would call her bossy and balk under her leadership. Eight alone would tell the others to let her do what she has to. But it’s not so much that they know better than to get in her way now; they accede to her need to command, to take lead and do what she must, supporting her without questioning.

The last stairs stretch before her, and even though the frantic pace is exhausting her, she plunges ahead, taking them two at a time. And now all four of them stand atop the tower, and they are facing the statue of Alexandra, founder of this fair village.

The statue’s smile is too serene, too kind for this world in crisis, and the lift to the graven lips is harsh in contrast to the empty eyesockets above their tranquil curve. Jessica shudders, unable still to confront the knowledge of what Rhapthorne’s possession briefly made of her, and what her fellows were forced to do to win her back. She owes her life—her soul—to the Kran Spinels pried free by sword-tip from Alexandra’s sculpted face and returned to Dominico, just in time for him to build the barrier that allowed her compatriots to… save her, she reminds herself, _save her_ ; the pain they caused her then only incidental to her rebirth, her return.

Shuddering, she shoves the thought away, raises the Echo Flute to her lips, and blows.

The piping notes bounce like breaking crystal off the marble floors and pillars, sharp and sweet, and there is a moment’s thin hesitation before the sound returns, sweeter still yet sharp enough to pierce her heart. Across the twilight space, pinpoints of bright light suddenly dance and swirl in a tiny whirlwind; and when she blinks, in their place, shining and serene, is what Empyrea promised when she dispatched them on this task. 

She edges forward, the others—her friends, her guardians—at her back, until the blue orb is at her feet. She stares a moment, swallowing, then bends to catch it up with a hand almost too sure and steady. 

She knows that this orb is not him, not his soul. Alistair has left her, gone beyond, and resides—she hopes, she prays—with the Goddess. This is merely where he… _fell_ , pierced through the heart by the scepter, left to die alone with Dhoulmagus’s laughter echoing in his ears. This orb is the embodiment of the Great Sage Alexandra; but Alistair was the heir to this great sage, Alexandra’s blood flowing in his veins, as that which also imbued Alistair’s flows in her. It is as if she can touch a piece, _hold_ a piece of him one last time, and she presses the orb to her heart and, over it, bows her head.

She will not weep, not this time, not in front of her fellows, although she crumpled to her knees and sobbed in the presence of two of them when they were yet strangers. How illogical that is, that she would cry unashamedly then, yet hold back her tears now. 

She will be strong, she needs to be strong, but when a gloved hand settles at her elbow, she can’t help but turn toward the touch and press her cheek to Angelo’s shoulder, allow his arms to enfold her. And then Eight and Yangus move in, embracing her as well while she trembles, until at last she has calmed herself and signals with a nod that she’s all right now.

Her tears remain unshed, another luxury—like time—they cannot afford. 

They break away, but don’t go far, only a few inches from her side; Angelo’s hand grazes once over hers before falling away almost reluctantly. Eight reaches out to take the flute and the orb from her; she concedes one but keeps the other. “No.” Her voice is strong. “I’ll carry it.”

Eight nods his concession, as he did when Angelo, oh-so-casually, said that he might as well take care of the gold orb found in the very spot where Abbot Francisco had fallen.

This will all be over soon, one way or the other; she might be with her brother, with all those who have fallen—with those now at her side as well—should they all fail. But for now, they must move on, to Baccarat, and the next memento of a Great Sage. She lifts up a quick prayer to the Goddess, then looks at each of them in turn and simply says, “Let’s go.”


End file.
